


Prophecies, Dead Generals, and Other Forms of Guarshit

by SoulStealer1987



Series: Daedric Red [2]
Category: Elder Scrolls III: Morrowind
Genre: Character Turned Into a Ghost, Gay Panic, M/M, Nerevar and the Nerevarine are not the same character, Nerevar's a glorified ancestor ghost honestly, and came to the conclusion that he'd think Nerevar was hot, and read one too many fics about the Nerevarine and Nerevar not being the same person, this happened when I was playing Morrowind with a gay disaster of a Nerevarine
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-01
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2020-07-28 19:33:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20069395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SoulStealer1987/pseuds/SoulStealer1987
Summary: It’s come to my attention that you have in your possession copies of a series calledLife and Times of the Nerevarine, by one Hasphat Antabolis. Quite simply, it’s guarshit.Oneshots ft. Nisil the disaster gay Nerevarine, Indoril Nerevar, and Morrowind'sbullshitguarshit. Because trust me, Morrowind's got a lot of guarshit.





	1. Letter

_ It’s come to my attention that you have in your possession copies of a series called _ _ Life and Times of the Nerevarine _ _ , by one Hasphat Antabolis. Quite simply, it’s guarshit. I can assure you that the man met the aforementioned Nerevarine a grand total of twice in his life: once, during the Nerevarine’s time with the Fighters Guild, and a second time shortly after when the Nerevarine was gathering information on the Sixth House and Nerevarine cults. _

_ I will not go into detail about how I know this, besides that I knew the Nerevarine very well for a time. If you need further confirmation than the word of an anonymous stranger, ask the man himself. Ask him the Nerevarine’s name. He won’t remember. Few do, these days, and those that do aren’t sharing. _

_ Regardless, I regret to inform you that Hasphat Antabolis is, quite simply, a fraud capitalizing on the sudden fascination of the public with the actions of the Nerevarine. While I will not go into details here, I can name, off the top of my head, quite a few key facts about the Nerevarine’s life that Antabolis got wrong: _

_ The Nerevarine did not, in fact, recover from corprus through any sort of godly intervention, nor did he never get corprus in the first place. He recovered from corprus by drinking a potion given to him by the Telvanni wizard Divayth Fyr, and this potion did not work on any other patient. To this day, neither the Nerevarine nor Divayth Fyr know why it worked. You may confirm this story if you so choose by visiting Beyte Fyr in her tower Tel Fyr in the Azura’s Coast region of Morrowind. Acquire a Levitation potion or two before you go, her office is unreachable otherwise. Ask her about the Nerevarine. Don't ask her about Divayth Fyr._

_ The Nerevarine was not an Ashlander. He was, however, an honorary member of the Urshilaku tribe of Ashlanders, and while they remain quite friendly to the Nerevarine to this very day, anyone you ask there will ascertain that he was an outlander. A polite, courteous outlander, but still an outlander. If you decide to corroborate this, be well aware that Ashlander courtesy is a funny thing. As long as you are polite, and do not enter an Ashlander’s yurt without permission, you should be fine, although I would recommend reading up on Ashlander traditions before you go. And take lots of potions, it’s quite a trek. _

_ The Nerevarine was an outlander born under the sign of the Lady in the Imperial City of Cyrodiil, and was arrested for attempting to desert the Imperial Legion while inebriated. As a prisoner, he was then shipped to Morrowind in the Emperor Uriel Septim VII’s hope that he would fulfill the Nerevarine prophecies, although the Nerevarine was then quite unaware of that fact, and would remain that way for some time. He was a member of the Blades, for a time. I would advise against attempting to confirm this unless you are a Blade yourself. _

_ The Nerevarine did actually engage the Daedric Prince Hircine in one-on-one combat on the island of Solstheim, and while the Nerevarine barely escaped with his life, he won. (This directly contrasts with Antabolis’ suggestion that perhaps, the Nerevarine had perished in the fight, and this was why none had heard from him since.) He remained in Solstheim for some time, but returned to Vvardenfell under an alias when news of Red Mountain’s eruption reached him to aid in the relief efforts. He did not go to Akavir. This can be confirmed by visiting the village of the Skaal on Solstheim, and examining their records of his stay. _

_ Most importantly, the Nerevarine is not Lord Indoril Nerevar reborn. The Nerevarine and Lord Indoril Nerevar are two distinct people. The Nerevarine was blessed and guided by Nerevar’s spirit throughout his journey, almost to the point where many were unable to distinguish the two, but the Nerevarine is not Nerevar. The phrase “incarnate moon and star reborn” in the most commonly known prophecy was a metaphor referring to the Daedric Prince Azura’s favor returning to the Dunmer people through the Nerevarine, who was aided by Lord Nerevar’s spirit throughout his journey. I can offer no way to confirm this, save the Nerevarine’s word. _

_ As someone who knew the Nerevarine quite well, it is an affront to him and all others who knew him similarly well to see this libel presented as the truth. _

~Unsigned letter sent to Phintias, proprietor of the bookstore called First Edition in the market district of the Imperial City, c. 4E 16

(Similar letters were reputedly sent to booksellers Mach-Na in Cheydinhal, Estelle Renoit in Chorrol, and Bugak gro-Bol in Leyawiin, although only Phintias framed the note in his store and made it public. As a direct result of this message, and despite the widespread popularity of _ Life and Times of the Nerevarine _ previously, all four books were out of print before the year was out, and their author was denounced as a fraud.)

(Many scholars and historians debated who the author of this note was for some time, although they never came to a consensus. Most have narrowed the identity of the author down to three potential individuals: Councilor Athyn Sarethi of Great House Redoran, Canon Mehra Milo of the New Temple, or the Nerevarine himself, whose name and current whereabouts are unknown.)

(Both Sarethi and Milo, when interviewed on the matter, declined to comment.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's come to _my_ attention that I've posted absolutely nothing about my gay disaster of a Nerevarine yet, despite having a fair amount of oneshots saved in Google Drive about him. Let's fix that.


	2. Release

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’s here and he’s queer and he needs a beer. Or some kind of alcohol, anyway.

Nisil Samarys never thought he’d miss his old prison cell. Funny what being abruptly shipped over to your ancestral home without any sort of warning did to you. It’s definitely going to hurt, being in prison over  _ here _ , of  _ all places… _ Not to mention his mum would be disappointed in him, but it’s not like he can disappoint her any more at this point.

“Shouldn’t you have my name already?” Nisil asks, determined to make things as hard for these guys as possible because  _ damn the Empire to Oblivion, that’s why. _ “I mean… I  _ was _ in prison for the past year and a half. Do you not transfer records or something?”

“It’s a formality,” the Imperial official says flatly. “Name?”

“Nisil. It’s pronounced like thistle, but with an N at the front instead.”

The official already looks very, very done with this situation, and while messing with him will most likely land him in all sorts of trouble, he can’t exactly resist. He’s been in prison for a while and is likely to be in prison for a while longer, he’s going to have a little fun at the Empire’s expense whenever he gets a chance.

“You literally just pronounced it. Last name?”

Nisil smirks, “How do you know I have one? Not all Dunmer do, you kn-”

“Last name?”

“Fine, fine, it’s... wait for it… Indoril.”

“...last name?”

“Indoril, told ya. Mum was a renegade noble, planning to screw over the Empire, never got around to it because she died. Fun shit. Pretty sure my father committed suicide instead of dealing with you guar-shaggers.”

Nisil’s never actually seen a guar, but someone he knew back in the Imperial City swore up and down that it was not something you wanted to tangle with, never mind screw. From the look on the old man’s face, he doesn’t know what a guar is either, but he’s getting impatient.

“For the last time,  _ what is your actual last name?” _

Nisil leans forward, and happens to catch a glimpse of the papers on the man’s desk, or at least one in particular. He doesn’t look particularly surprised to see his actual name on there, although the old man quickly slides that paper over to the side. Never mind that it’s still very much in his field of vision.

“For the last time,” Nisil quips, “it’s Indoril.”

He doesn’t actually know much about House Indoril, other than that they really, really,  _ really _ hate the Empire. He could get onboard with that, assuming their hatred of the Empire doesn’t expand to anyone who’s ever lived in it. Which it might. That would be… pretty crappy for him.

“No,” the official says firmly, “it is not. What. Is. Your. Last. Name?”

“You have it written down there,” Nisil nods to the paper in question, which the official quickly shoves under another. “Do I really have to say it?”

_ “Yes.” _

Nisil sighs, “Samarys. Nisil Samarys, and before you ask, no I don’t know who my father was and my mother’s dead. Long dead. Trust me, if I had family I wouldn’t have resorted to joining your blasted Legion in the first place.”

The official nods curtly, and notes it down on a different piece of paper. Nisil taps his foot impatiently, and tries hard not to think about his mum.

“Very well. What are your skills?”

“Bold of you to assume I have any skills,” Nisil says. The official sighs, sets his pen down, and meets Nisil’s gaze.

“Nisil Samarys, you are being  _ released _ onto the island of Vvardenfell-”

“Hang on,  _ what?” _ Nisil’s eyes go wide. “You mean you’re not just transferring me to a different prison? You’re… not screwing with me?” The official shakes his head, and for a moment, Nisil allows himself to hope.

“No. We are not. You are being released, onto Vvardenfell, and I would strongly suggest you lose the attitude if you would like to  _ stay _ out of prison.”

Considering that everything Nisil thought he knew about this situation just got disproved, all he can do is nod numbly in agreement.

“Now, what are your skills?”

“Umm,” Nisil frowns. “Define skills.”

“Things you’re good at, it’s not that hard. Work with me here.”

Nisil would have said something particularly snarky there, except that considering they’re actually about to  _ release him _ … for some reason… being snarky probably isn’t in his best interest right now. Never mind that there’s probably a catch. There’s always a catch, after all. But actually getting released into Morrowind, onto Vvardenfell? He can live with a catch as long as it doesn’t end up being too terribly dangerous.

“Well, I do a lot of running away, if that counts for anything. I wouldn’t say I’m good at it, though. If I was good at it, I wouldn’t be here because I wouldn’t have gotten  _ caught _ deserting. Granted, I was utterly wasted at the time, but you know.”

“That can’t possibly be all you’re good at,” the old man says. Nisil doesn’t remember his name, although it’s one of those fancy Imperial names that ended in an S, because literally every Imperial name ended in an S, with like… two exceptions Nisil can think of off the top of his head, and one of them’s the current Emperor. Maybe this man’s name starts with an S too, who knows?

“That’s… pretty much it,” Nisil says with a shrug. “I’m useless.”

(Well, he’d like to think he’s decent in the bedroom, but he makes a point of not flirting with government officials that could easily screw him over if he decided he’d had enough. Best to avoid that before it begins, and this particular official doesn’t look to swing that way regardless.)

“You said… you were incarcerated for deserting, correct?”

“The Imperial Legion, yeah.”

“Well,” the old man almost smirks, and pauses just long enough for Nisil to think  _ oh balls _ . “Presumably you learned something there, did you not?”

“I’ve been in prison for like two years. You tend to forget things in prison. As I said, I’m useless.”

The old man tapped his quill against his chin thoughtfully. “Do you know how to use a sword and shield?”

“Vaguely.”

“A bow?”

“Somewhat. Better than a sword and shield.”

“Heavy armor?”

“No way in Oblivion, I’d trip over my own feet and not be able to get up again.”

“Light armor?”

“Maybe. Big maybe.”

“Medium armor?”

“Medium armor  _ exists?” _

This goes on for a while, until the old man eventually settles on calling Nisil an ‘Acrobat’, whatever that is. It sounds vaguely like a nice way of saying he’s useless - which, admittedly, isn’t all that inaccurate. He can usually get by without being too injured in a bar brawl, but that’s not skill, that’s luck.

“So,” the old man asks,  _ finally _ moving on, “what sign were you born under?”

“The Lady,” Nisil says automatically. That one’s easy, although he’s not certain why it matters. In fact, he almost regrets mentioning it… but with any luck he won’t tell anyone, and Nisil will never have to deal with people making fun of him for it again. It’s not like it was his fault he was born under a certain sign…

Although, he supposes it could have been worse. A lot worse. He missed being born under the sign of the Serpent by a matter of days. Some might say he should be glad he wasn’t, which… Nisil is. But he certainly isn’t thanking anyone for that, because getting shipped abruptly off to Morrowind without so much of a warning is probably the best thing that’s happened to him in the past five years.

Granted, he’s spent a good chunk of those past five years in prison, but still.

“I need to know if this is correct before I stamp it.”

The old man passes over the paper to Nisil, who reads over it dubiously.

_ For release, by Emperor Uriel Septim VII’s decree, to the district of Vvardenfell in the province of Morrowind. _

_ Name: Nisil Samarys _

Yeah, that’s right. Although it would have been hilarious if he’d actually put his last name down as Indoril. Considering that he knows next to nothing  _ about _ House Indoril, that probably wouldn’t have gone well, so it’s probably a good thing that his bluffing skills are… not great.

_ Race: Dark Elf _

Minus the fact that no self-respecting Dunmer  _ wants _ to be called a ‘Dark Elf’, that’s right. Most of the guys Nisil’s dated understood that. A few didn’t, and those relationships never lasted long. It was… probably for the best, considering.

_ After all, _ Nisil thinks,  _ I know better than to call you a Cyrod. _

_ Class: Acrobat _

Nisil still has no idea what that is, to be honest. So, he asks, “What’s an Acrobat, again?”

“It’s the closest thing I can think of to you,” the old man says. “It’s… a polite euphemism for particularly agile thieves.”

_ Well, I’m not a thief, but I  _ am _ agile… _ Nisil quickly amends his thoughts. _ Well, if running away from things counts as agile. _

“Sure, that works,” Nisil says, and reads the final bit of the document.

_ Signed, _

_ Socucius Ergalla _

_ Agent of the Seyda Neen Imperial Census and Excise. _

_ 16th of Last Seed 3E 427 _

“Yeah,” Nisil says, passing the paper back over to the old man (apparently ‘Socucius Ergalla’), who proceeds to stamp them and give them back. “So what do I do now?”

“Show the papers to the Captain when you exit to get your release fee.”

Nisil being Nisil, he doesn’t pay much attention until he hears the word  _ fee. _ Then he freezes, because  _ fee _ means  _ money _ and he doesn’t have any money, why would they even expect him to? He was in  _ prison! _

“Fee?” Nisil asks in a small voice.

Socucius Ergalla nods, “Yes. You’ll get a small sum of drakes to get you on your way, and providing you don’t break the law, you should be able to increase that sum.”

Nisil almost laughs. Right. Even if he doesn’t break the law - which is very, very debatable - he’s always been bad about saving money. If he sees something he thinks he’ll need in a shop, he’s going to get it, saving for a rainy day be damned. And usually, he does need it later, but by then he’s lost it and needs another one. Because of course he does.

(At least one relationship failed because of that, possibly more if he counts that and other things. He… tries not to think of those ones, if he’s being honest. Most of them blew up in his face, but some… ended well, on good terms. Some, he kept in touch with.)

(Some, he wishes he’d gotten a chance to say goodbye to.)

“So,” Nisil asks, forcing himself out of his thoughts, what exactly  _ is _ against the law here?”

“Theft,” Socucius begins, counting it off on his fingers, “Trespass, Assault, Foul Murder, and Contempt. If you commit a crime, turn yourself into the guards and you’ll have a choice of paying damages or doing hard labor. Take it from me… pay if you can.”

“Contempt is a  _ crime?” _

_ I’m doomed, _ Nisil realizes as Socucius nods solemnly.  _ I am so, so doomed. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey look, we’ve got a name now!
> 
> Fun fact: the only things Nisil has maxed out in-game are Speed and Athletics. Beyond that he’s a bit of a jack of all trades, and I’m sure you can imagine how well that goes for him.


	3. Ring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So apparently I devoted an entire chapter to freaking out about Fargoth. Here is said chapter/oneshot/????

“Are you the one that boat dropped off?”

Nisil, who up until now had been not really paying much attention to where he was going, suddenly realizes that someone’s talking to him. He glances down, and sees a Bosmer. Nisil’s not tall, few Dunmer are, and even among the few Dunmer he knew back in the Imperial City he’d been on the short side, but Bosmer are even shorter.

Nisil takes a moment to appreciate the fact that he’s actually taller than someone for once before answering.

“Um, yeah, that’s me,” Nisil says, and the Bosmer  _ grins. _

“Really? So you’re a prisoner, eh? Or an ex-prisoner? Odd to see a boat arrive at this time of day. Hope the Imperials treated you okay, I know they don’t like me but that might be partially my fault of course… I swear they took my ring.”

“That’s legal?” Nisil asks, finally getting a word in edgewise (well, technically two words). The Bosmer nods, and barrels on.

“No, of course it isn’t! Well maybe it is, but I wouldn’t know, I don’t pay attention to the technicalities of things when it comes to the Imperials, which doesn’t exactly work out for me and my ring. I miss my ring. I swear one of the guards has it, I had it last week before their weekly ‘Let’s shake down Fargoth’ ritual.”

Nisil frowns, but makes a mental note of the fact that the Bosmer’s name is apparently Fargoth. Might be useful later. People like it when you remember their names, after all… even if they never actually told you said name in the first place. People are weird.

“That definitely doesn’t sound legal,” Nisil says.

Fargoth shrugs, “Maybe not, maybe not but I’ve gotten used to it. Oh, how I miss my ring… it’s an engraved healing ring, family heirloom of mine. Got it from my dear old Great-Aunt Siflina way back before she died, poor dear, old Great-Aunt Siflina... You wouldn’t have happened to see it when you were inside the Offices, of course. Or did you find it?”

Fargoth’s fixed Nisil with an oddly calculating look at this point, and stopped chattering on and on, and Nisil’s breath catches in his throat. Time seems to slow, almost to a crawl, as Nisil thinks on his options.

_ He knows. _

The ring in question can’t weigh much, but even so, Nisil can almost feel it weighing his pack down. At least he had the sense not to wear it out. He could lie, of course, and hope to whatever gods might be spurred to help him for some odd reason that his pokerface is better than it was pre-prison, or Fargoth will catch him in the lie. Or he could tell the truth, and give the ring back. Which… well, sure it might be enchanted, but it’s not like he knew how to use the enchantment anyway, and it’s not worth risking his life for a ring he doesn’t even know how to use properly.

Well, it’s debatable if it would be risking his life, because how dangerous can a chatterbox Bosmer be, anyway? But it’s the right thing to do, if nothing else. Even if he isn’t sure how much he trusts Fargoth - actually, strike that, he doesn’t trust Fargoth at all - and even if he plans to get out of this town at the earliest opportunity…

“Yeah,” Nisil says. “Yeah, I think I might have found it. Give me a second.” He sets his pack down (not new, but not particularly well-worn, either - that’s going to change soon) and rummages through it for some time, despite knowing exactly where the ring is.

Eventually, he pulls it out, and passes it to Fargoth with a rather forced smile. The Bosmer’s eyes light up with pure, unadulterated glee, and for a moment Nisil almost forgets how intimidating every bit of that particular mer can be, and was, intentionally or not.

“You found it!” Fargoth exclaims, and  _ he _ wastes no time in slipping it onto his finger. “Amazing! Thank you, thank you, thank you! You, my friend, are now my  _ favorite _ friend! I’ll be sure to tell the others, especially my friend Arrille who runs the tradehouse here. Come on, I’ll introduce you to him, uh…”

“Nisil,” Nisil offers, albeit reluctantly. And he’s really not sure why he’d be reluctant about giving this random Bosmer his name. It’s not like he gave his last name, too, and his first name’s supposed to be a fairly common one in Morrowind. Or at least that’s what he’s heard… or, well, hoped. It’s not common in Cyrodiil, so it has to be common somewhere… right? Hopefully?

“Nisil! Come now, favorite friend. Let us go to the tradehouse!”

As Nisil lets himself be dragged by the arm in the general direction of the lone two-story building in the town - excluding the lighthouse, of course - he can’t seem to shake two feelings. The feeling of being watched, for one thing, and not by Fargoth… and a distinct sense that whoever or whatever’s watching him, it approved of him giving that ring back.

Approval, from any source, isn’t something Nisil comes by often. So he’s not about to question the source. Maybe it’s one of his ancestors guarding him. He’s always wanted an ancestor guardian. Or maybe it’s one of the Aedra actually taking notice of him, or one of the Daedra, or… or something…

_ Yeah, no, who am I kidding, _ Nisil thinks to himself as Fargoth drags him into Arrille’s Tradehouse with a giant, shit-eating grin.  _ I’m not that important. _ And in all honesty, he’s okay with that.

At the same time, the spirit of a certain very dead Chimer general privately disagrees. Not with Nisil being okay with not being important, because from what little he’s seen of this particular Incarnate, Nisil Samarys would like nothing more than to have nothing to do with anything that could potentially result in his death. However, prophecy has other plans for this particular Dunmer, as it did for all who came before him. Nisil Samarys is, in fact, that important, whether he likes it or not.

Indoril Nerevar sincerely hopes he figures that out sooner rather than later. The ones that figure it out later tend to find it out too late, or sometimes not at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reminding me of this, Six! I need to write more with this utter dork


	4. Flight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh no he found the scrolls

So, Nisil  _ could _ have taken the ‘silt strider’ or whatever in Oblivion that weird bug thing was, but he just got to Morrowind, he’s not riding in a bug yet unless he has no other choice. Besides, he doesn’t have enough money to pay for the trip, not after picking up some gear… that was very necessary, thanks, he’s not taking any chances where cliff racers are involved.

Has he ever seen a cliff racer? No. 

Does he know what cliff racers look like? No. 

Has he heard plenty of horror stories from people who have tangled with cliff racers and barely lived to tell the tale? Yes.

Of course, he hadn’t gone far before he heard… something. At first, Nisil thought for sure he was imagining it. Then maybe he wondered if there was something in his ear, or… something.

He realized it was screaming right before an Altmer wizard in a particularly ornate robe crashed down into the ground not two feet in front of Nisil, who… wisely took a step back. When magic’s involved, and he’s around, things always seem to blow up… granted, that was back home in Cyrodiil. And out of all the crazy guarshit he’s seen the Mages Guild do back home, this would make even their experiments look tame.

“What in Oblivion,” Nisil mutters to himself, before shrugging and deciding that he might as well investigate what would make a wizard fall from the sky. Fortunately, his journal explains all. He was, apparently, working on a spell to make people able to travel great distances.

Evidently, he didn’t stick the landing. While Nisil has no desire for his robe, he does at least drag the mer’s corpse to the side of the road - and, while doing so, comes across two - no, three - scrolls of… oh.

_ Scroll of Icarian Flight, _ one of them reads as Nisil unfolds it just a bit. His eyes go wide, and he  _ grins. _ He does need to get to Balmora, after all… apparently. Because orders. Why did he get orders, anyway? Weren’t they letting him go free?

Nisil shrugs to himself, and prepares to read out the scroll.

“Please don’t do that,” someone says, someone very close by, and Nisil drops the scroll in shock. He quickly looks around, even going so far as to eye the wizard’s corpse suspiciously… but nope. Not the wizard, not him. Maybe his imagination?

Sheesh, even his imagination’s trying to stop him from doing dumb guarshit. Maybe it’s onto something. But then again, since when did his imagination have a voice at all, never mind a rather hot one?

“Okay, but… why not?” Nisil asks. Silence, and Nisil realizes that he’s still holding the scroll. He sighs, and rolls it back up, before sticking it - and the others, which are probably the same - in his pack. “Look, I won’t use it. Or the others, for that matter. Not until I’ve got a way to replicate the magic in the scrolls, anyway, I’ve only got three.”

Silence, again, and Nisil is beginning to think he really did imagine the voice before he hears a very distinct, very annoyed, very done-sounding sigh.

_ Well, _ Nisil thinks,  _ at least I didn’t imagine it. _ Or maybe he’s going crazy, but, you know, positivity. He’s not going crazy, hopefully.

“Because I’ve seen a lot of people die in very, very stupid ways,” the voice says, “and killing yourself in exactly the same way this wizard did would still be the worst.”

Nisil frowns, “But I wouldn’t…”

“The landing,” the voice says, and Nisil admits, reluctantly, to himself, that the voice might actually have a point. “Do us both a favor, and make sure you have a way to survive the landing  _ before _ testing out any of those scrolls.”

“Fine, I remember hearing that levitation’s legal over here so I’ll grab some potions for that at some point,” Nisil promises. The voice is quiet, but he can still sense its…  _ his? _ approval. Speaking of which, “By the way… do you have a name? Assuming I’m not, you know, imagining you. Which I might be. And probably am.”

“Yes,” the voice says, and doesn’t speak again for some time, not until Nisil’s gotten back to Seyda Neen and gotten in the silt strider - because if wizards falling from the sky is a thing that happens in Morrowind, he’d like to spend the least amount of time on the road as possible, thanks.

Nisil wonders if maybe the voice is one of his ancestors. He’s always wanted to know his ancestors. The way his mum said it, your ancestors generally did protect you from harm, to an extent.

_ Of course, _ she’d added,  _ there’s only so much they can do. They were once mortal, too. _

Nisil wonders if their ancestors had been watching over her when she disappeared. He doubts it, because while she did technically disappear… all that means is that they didn’t find her body.

He does try talking to the voice more, but whoever it is, whatever it is, the voice doesn’t respond, and Nisil eventually gives up. It’s more because of the fact that he really doesn’t want the silt strider… driver(?) to think he’s crazy.

“Quick question,” Nisil asks as they near Balmora, “how obvious is it that I’m an outlander?”

“Very, sera,” the driver says all too cheerfully. “But it’s mostly your accent. Get yourself some armor, give it a few years, and it’ll be much less obvious.”

“Is it bad that I’m not sure I’m going to survive a few years? Vvardenfell seems pretty dangerous.”

“It is, sera, it is. My advice is to stay near civilization and take the strider until you can hold your own, and avoid cliff racers.”

“Oh yeah… what do those look like, again?”

“You’ll know them when you see them. Or hear them. Don’t bother running, few mer alive could outrun one of those.”

“Running’s… literally the only thing I’m good at.”

“Then, sera, you should stay well away from cliff racers until you have something other than running you’re good at.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have nothing to say for myself except owo


	5. Orders

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone, meet Nisil's impulse control, who is already very, _very_ done. Then again, can you really blame him?

“You have no idea how tempted I am to just rip this open and read these anyway, just to spite the Empire,” Nisil mutters. He’s been talking to himself a lot more lately, although if there’s actually a ghost of some sort watching his back (or at least trying to keep him from doing too much dumb guarshit) it’s not really to himself, is it?

“That would be a terrible idea,” the voice—which Nisil has begun to refer to as, quite originally, the Voice—says. Nisil groans. “Even if you did open it and your tampering wasn’t discovered, it’s likely to be encrypted.”

“I have no idea what that means,” Nisil says, “but that sounds vaguely like something explosive. Or magical. Or both.”

The Voice audibly groans, much to Nisil’s amusement. After a moment, it offers, “In code. So, you won’t be able to read it.”

“Oh,” Nisil says. “Great.”

He considers opening the sealed package anyway, but he soon thinks better of it, and shoves it back into his pack, mentally reviewing his own orders that… he’s honestly really tempted to ignore completely, but he doesn’t. Then, he gets to his feet, and enters the South Wall Cornerclub.

“Hi,” Nisil says to the first person he sees, a surprisingly friendly-looking Nord woman. In all honesty, he never thought he’d put the words ‘friendly’ and ‘Nord’ in the same sentence, but here he is. “By any chance do you know where I can find Caius Cosades?”

“That old sugar-tooth?” The woman asks, raising an eyebrow. “No idea what you’d want with him, unless you’re delivering his goods—”

“I’m not delivering skooma,” Nisil says hurriedly. “I just need to know where to find him.” The woman shrugs.

“It’s all the same to me,” she says, then grins. “You look sneaky, you should go talk to Sugar-Lips Habasi. Khajiit in the back in the chitin. I’m Sottilde, by the way. Good to meet you.”

“I, um… Nisil,” he grins awkwardly. “Same.”

Sugar-Lips Habasi, as it happens, is in fact a Khajiit wearing a bug-skin (wait, wait, it’s called something else…  _ chitin? _ ) chestplate and with an expression that somehow manages to come off as both calculating and friendly.

“Ahh, yes, Habasi knows Caius Cosades,” Habasi says all too cheerfully. “Turn right and go up the stairs right out the door, then turn left and keep going to the end. His little bread-and-basket’s in the corner there. Want to join the Thieves Guild?”

“Thanks, I’ll just be—wait,  _ what? _ ”

Five minutes later, Nisil’s well on his way to Caius Cosades’ house, and also, somehow, apparently, a completely accidental member of the Thieves Guild. He’s pretty sure the Voice doesn’t approve, but the Voice hasn’t said anything for some time, so there’s that.

(Actually, come to think of it, the Voice only speaks up when he’s about to do something exceptionally stupid. Huh. Maybe it— _ he _ —is one of his ancestors.)

(Maybe not. That doesn’t seem quite right. But who else could the Voice even be?)


End file.
